XXVI. Contemns Philosophy.

Where antique woods oer-hang the mountainss crest, And mid-day glooms in solemn silence lour; Philosophy, go seek a lonely bowr, And waste lifes fervid noon in fancied rest. Go, where the bird of sorrow weaves her nest, Cooing, in sadness sweet, through nights dim hour; Go, cull the dew-drops from each potent flowr That medcines to the cold and reasning breast! Go, where the brook in liquid lapse steals by, Scarce heard amidst the mingling echoes round, What time, the noon fades slowly down the sky, And slumbring zephyrs moan, in caverns bound: Be these thy pleasures, dull Philosophy! Nor vaunt the balm, to heal a lovers wound.